


Armour-ous Congress

by babzilla



Series: Lover’s Skin [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Armour Swap, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Misconceptions, Pre-Series, Pre-Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back, Pre-The Mandalorian, inspired by the new season, very nebulous spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27423223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babzilla/pseuds/babzilla
Summary: It’s not the first time he’s heard of someone impersonating a Mandalorian— stealing armour and pretending that they’re something they’re not. It can be a lucrative business, but given that the pretender looks like a stiff breeze could carry them away, Din is looking forward to settling the matter quickly.What he’s not expecting is to findLuke Skywalkerin Boba Fett’s armour.
Relationships: Boba Fett/Luke Skywalker
Series: Lover’s Skin [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2003545
Comments: 20
Kudos: 215





	Armour-ous Congress

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: none to my eyes apart from references to things that have happened in canon. Tagged for spoilers for safety due to the concept, nothing more.
> 
> One line of Mando’a in this (see end note), very kindly translated by Zarra_Rous (https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zarra_Rous/pseuds/Zarra_Rous)! ❤️

It’s not the first time he’s heard of someone impersonating a Mandalorian— stealing armour and pretending that they’re something they’re not. It can be a lucrative business, banking on the reputation of Mandalore’s warrior culture to inflate commission fees for contract bounties and other mercenary work. People didn’t like anything so much as someone who _looked_ right for the job, and the only thing better than a Mandalorian was a Wookiee.

There’s also the unfortunate fact that after the Siege, Mandalorians were in short supply while their armour could be found in abundance.

It rankled, perhaps more than anything else about his people’s current precarious position in the galaxy. He couldn’t change the past, make up for their many losses after the Siege, but he could preserve Mandalore’s honour when it came to putting down pretenders looking to make a profit off of Mandalore’s name and image.

But perhaps worse than mercenaries trying to get ahead any way they could were the so-called collectors who hoarded _beskar’gam_ to display it in the Core, or those who wore it for their own amusement. People who took a warrior’s armour and perverted its purpose at the most basic level by not even using it for any functional employment.

Right now he was on the trail of someone in the last category. 

He’d heard rumours of a man in _beskar’gam_ in town, brightly coloured and distinctive, though he wasn’t able to get a clear description. Naturally, he’d sought them out— other Mandalorians usually had the best insights on local bounties and other jobs going in the sector. And it would have been nice to spend a moment with someone who wouldn’t gawk at him out of hand.

But after spotting the young man across the crowded marketplace it had been immediately obvious that while he wore the armour, he wasn’t _Mando’ade_.

Neither the armour nor the undersuit fit him perfectly— sitting well enough on his body, but clearly not made to his measurements. He didn’t move naturally while wearing it, alternately overly cautious of the armour plates or forgetting that he was wearing it entirely, instead of moving as if he _was_ the armour, as any true _Mando'ade_ was taught from the moment they received their armour. And the helmet— Din knew there were Mandalorians who weren’t sworn to the Creed, but the man wasn’t even _carrying_ it with him.

No, it was clear— the armour didn’t belong to him.

And given the fact that he was carrying only a single blaster and looked like a strong breeze could blow him over and he’d go happily, Din was optimistic that he could settle the business of the stolen armour quickly enough that it wouldn’t interfere with his own job. He could return it to the Covert afterwards, and the Armourer could decide what to do with it— whether it could be sent back to its original Clan or House, or repurposed for the foundlings if both lines had gone extinct.

So, keeping a discreet distance, he follows the pretender as he took his time perusing the food stalls in the market before he made his way back to one of the better inns in town, laden with several bags of steaming food. The man gave no indication of noticing that he was being followed and wandered between the locals without a care, making easy conversation with the stall owners and having no problems sharing his newly purchased sweet treats with the street kids that ran up to him.

Din supposed that a man who could afford to buy his own _beskar’gam_ as an amusement could afford to at the very least give the _impression_ of generosity.

Disdain not fading in the slightest as he tails the man to the inn, he lingered in the common area for a few moments before heading up the stairs, certain that he wasn’t being followed in turn by any discrete security the man may have hired. He reaches the landing just in time to see the edge of the man’s cape disappear into the last room at the end of the hall. 

Hand flexing over his blaster, he gives it another couple of minutes before he makes his way over, stepping silently up to the door before knocking politely. He’s not what anyone would call bloodthirsty— just practical. 

If he can intimidate the man into giving up the armour quickly, then all the better. He’s found that the wealthy type will fold easily enough, given the right motivation.

What he’s not expecting, when the door opens, is Luke fucking Skywalker.

There’s no mistaking the Rebel—he’s on enough bounty pucks that half the galaxy’s bounty hunters could recite his biography from memory. He’s the right height, blond hair bleached golden (meaning that he’s been spending time on location instead of flying with his famous Rogue Squadron), and the blue eyes are a perfect match to the wanted posters, bright and clear— electric blue and sharp as a _jai’galaar’s._ He’s wanted alive for a truly obscene number of credits, and is worth your own death warrant if you try to bring him in dead. They say he destroyed the weapon the Empire used to destroy Alderaan, that he’s escaped Vader himself three times, that he cuts down Stormtroopers with a flaming sword.

Looking at him now, Din notes again that he carries only a simple blaster at his left hip, no other weapon in sight except a silver cylinder hanging at his other hip, and certainly no sword— flaming or otherwise. 

What he is carrying is a piece of honeycake in his hand, the golden syrup thick and dripping onto the gloves of the _beskar’gam_ in a way that makes him wince internally. It’s terrible armour etiquette.

But the mess on the glove quickly draws his attention to the rest of the ensemble. 

He hadn’t been able to identify the colours on the _beskar’gam_ immediately at a distance, but there’s no mistaking them now.

The mark of the Journeyman Protectors on the green cuirass, the bright red mythosaur on the golden pauldrons, the Wookiee hair aiguillettes hanging from one shoulder—

It’s Boba Fett’s armour.

It takes him a moment to process, and in that moment, the Rebel speaks first.

“You were the one that was following me in the marketplace.” He says it lightly, tone as conversational as when he had been speaking with the vendors downstairs. 

And it grates, slightly, to know that he’d been made from the beginning, but he can concede that he hadn’t known he was tailing the man currently topping the Empire’s Most Wanted List— someone who was surely used to being followed, by bounty hunters or otherwise.

Din himself had never bothered with the bounties on the Rebels— he wouldn’t exactly say that he was sympathetic to their cause, but he certainly wasn’t a fan of the Empire either. If the Rebels wanted to keep punching above their weight class then Din was happy to leave them to it without getting in the way.

With this new development, however, he wasn’t so sure he could keep that same neutrality.

Luke Skywalker certainly wasn’t some rich socialite on a pleasure tour, and by all accounts the rumours of his skills would make it reasonable to assume that he could get the better of Boba Fett if the bounty hunter had gone after him. And then to take his armour…

“Take it off,” he demands simply. “Or I will.”

Honeycake halfway to his mouth, the Rebel’s brows raise all the way up until they disappear under the soft fall of his hair.

“Well, that’s very forward of you,” he says challengingly before taking a bite of the honeycake.

“It doesn’t belong to you,” he says, ignoring the Rebel’s attitude.

“Mhmm,” Skywalker nods, agreeing as he licks stray crumbs off the sticky, syrup covered glove.

“I’m not going to ask again,” he says with finality, hand resting on his blaster.

Nodding again as he idly licks at the syrup on his fingers, Skywalker leans against the doorframe, giving him an indulgent look.

“Listen— I do admire your intentions, but I think there’s been a misunderstanding here.”

“Has there.”

Skywalker smiles. “Yup. This armour isn’t stolen, I can promise you that.”

“You expect me to believe that?” He asks, hand still on his blaster, and fingers inching closer to the trigger.

“You could come in and check?” The Rebel offers, smirking wickedly.

Yeah, and then he’ll go to Imperial Centre and demand to be the new Emperor.

Like hell.

“Whatever you did to Fett— I don’t care. But I’m not letting you keep that armour.”

Then, something unexpected happens.

From inside Skywalker’s room, out of sight but perfectly audible, a man groans with great frustration. 

And then, in perfect _Mando’a_ :

“For fuck’s sake— _linibar cinarir ner kad, or’dinii!_ ”

Blinking behind his helmet, he stands utterly still, eyes locked with Skywalker while the Rebel’s smirk widens as he raises his fingers to his mouth again, very unsubtly sucking at the sticky syrup.

_Oh._

Nobody speaks for a long moment, Skywalker content to watch him stand stock still in the doorway with the intent focus of a nexu stalking its prey, and Fett (it’s undoubtedly _Fett—_ ) silent from inside Skywalker’s room after his outburst.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come inside and check for yourself?” The smiling Rebel asks coyly with a light in his eyes that suggests he’s about as innocent as a dancer on Corellia.

“... No.”

Without another word, he pivots on his heel and makes quickly for the stairs down to the lobby at a speed that’s not quite a run.

He almost makes it before Skywalker dissolves into thick, syrupy giggles, Fett’s voice calling him back into the room with urgency.

Sometimes, he doesn’t know why he even bothers.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Notes:
> 
> Translation, with special thanks to Zarra_Rous: a gratuitous Mando’a euphemism for getting your dick wet?
> 
> _linibar cinarir ner kad, or’dinii - need to clean my sword, moron_
> 
> —
> 
> Pretend I updated something else before posting this. Please.
> 
> If you see any errors, let me know 😩


End file.
